I woke up from that dream again, the dream where I was in bed and you were with me.

It was night and the blinds were open just enough to let the moonlight in. The quilt was pulled to your waist and your belly, rounded six months with child, shined white from the moon. Your body, with child. Your body, with our child.

You were asleep but I wasn't. I was awake thinking of what more I needed to do for the nursery, how I needed to finish building the crib and figure out the design for the changing table.

For just a moment I stopped thinking, stopped worrying, and just looked at you. I put my hand on belly, felt the movement, looked at your face. You were looking at me.

That's when I woke up. That's when I always wake up.

After that night, that real non-dream night, after I finally stopped thinking long enough to sleep, we both woke up. That was the day you lost the baby.

That was the day you left me, even though you didn't move out for another four months.

I woke up tonight from that dream. I went into what was supposed to be the nursery. The room that still contains the almost-finished crib.